


and loyal, as he seems to remain

by jazforthesoul



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, DreamSMP - Freeform, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Manipulation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PHILZA MINECRAFT ACTUALLY ACTS LIKE A FATHER FIGURE POG CHAMP, Starvation, Swearing, Technoblade but he is sad, This is really sad, Villian!Tommy, dream said hey what if i was an ass, implied suicide but it isnt true, no shipping bc this is sad, post-president tubbo, sbi, slight reference to scars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28273518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazforthesoul/pseuds/jazforthesoul
Summary: Tubbo was where he always would be in early April. He would sit on the wooden bench, listening to a song as the sun rose. His feet would be wet from the morning dew and he would be wearing his old, blue military jacket that had small tears at the bottom from time and moths. He had stopped adding patches of fabric once he ran out of sentimental symbols to sew in. He had an old medallion from his departure from office, a recognition that he was the first president to leave without dying. The soft chords of Mellohi floated through the air, a bittersweet taste was in the back of his throat. It had taken a while to accept, to move on.orI saw dream manipulation and my trauma and said "hmmm i can do something with this"please look at triggers!!
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Sleepy Bois Inc. - Relationship
Comments: 11
Kudos: 29





	1. how the mighty fall

**Author's Note:**

> helo!! so this is my first like actual work so here we go!!
> 
> please mind the triggers
> 
> tw// implied suicide (although it was not actually suicide), someone is slightly starved, and smp!dream manipulation.

_ 'If god is real, he will need to beg for my forgiveness.' _

The thought was loud in comparison to the deafening silence surrounding him. 

The formerly feared warrior sat in the corner of his cell, his skeleton creating a starved silhouette to study and ridicule. He was shivering slightly, he always seemed to be. The air was cold and pricked his lungs with each inhale. Other than that, he was still. He wouldn’t waste energy through slight movements recreation. 

A metal door quickly slid open, metal scraping along the side of the old walls. Some guard set something on the ground but he didn’t face it. He was aware that the hallway was wide open, only one guard he could easily beat. Before. Now? He would be lucky if he could walk correctly. Even if he could have run, he didn’t give the opening a second glance. The prisoner was fully aware of what the consequences of attempting escape were, and the burns and scars on his back would remind him if he dared to forget. 

He swore that he could hear Dream's faint laughter behind something in the room, mocking him. He had once been known only by his name, fear would be invoked in listeners. And now he sat on the ground, empathy run dry, and bones ready to break at the slightest pressure. 

The motherfucker starved him, took everything away from him. How long had he been here? Two years? Three? 

He stopped counting the days once he ran out of wall space. 

He hated it. He hated himself for not standing up for the people that he cared about. He hated Dream for… everything. But at the end of the day, he had protected those who he fought for. And that brought him a special pride that could never be pried from his hands. Reactions were the only currency he had, the only thing he could keep from Dream. His breaking point didn’t exist, therefore Dream could never break him. He hadn't cried yet, much to Dream's dismay. He had only winced at most, a reaction was something he never wanted to give Dream. The masked coward didn't deserve the satisfaction.

There was a tray with food on it, the first and only meal for the day. He ran pathetically over to the tray, hands digging into the meat, not stopping for air. He was like an animal, any remains of humanity he had before had disappeared with his strength. 

_ Oh, how the mighty fall. _

Hands dug ravenously into scraps of steak and vegetables. Leftovers, no doubt, but still edible nourishment. He wouldn't complain. There was what looked like water in a bottle that he drank swiftly. Acid seemed to pour down his throat and burn his lungs. Harming potion, that was new.

Most people in his predicament would have starved themselves, or at least given up by now. Take a cloth and just end it. The voices told him to just end it all, but he would not.

**_"It would be so easy...justletgoletgolet-"_ **

No.

Not until he made Dream pay for what he did. For the lives he took.

So revenge kept him going. At first, it was just a small spark that didn't empower him in any way. But as time passed, anger fueled the passion for a bloodstained mask in his hands. When Dream told him Tommy was dead, he persisted. When Dream told him Phil was helping him, he didn't bat an eye. When everything was taken from him, shattered in front of his own eyes, he would only stare in silence. The voices, growing louder in his forced silence, screamed for blood to be spilt. They yearned for violence. But unlike before, they only wanted one victim. 

An intercom buzzed static into the room, filling his ears and he felt a sting on the side of his neck. He laid flat on his back in a flash of pain. He kept his face blank but it had caught him off guard. 

"Open room 03. Inmate number 601 also known as Technoblade is to be restrained."

The metal collar around his throat shocked him with a sting and he fell on his side. He groaned softly and his hands grabbed at the collar involuntarily.

'Fuck that one hurt.'

He backed up into his corner, which was where he spent the majority of his time. His back was pressed against the wall to see whoever came in and to stand his ground.

A large door opened on the opposite side of the room as a boy in a grey hoodie and mask walked with an older man who wore blue linen and had blond hair that reached his chin. The man kept his head down, but the prisoner knew damn well who it was. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, he had hope for a few fleeting moments. 

"Remember what we said. 5 minutes."

The masked boy spoke with an odd tone, barely familiar but cold. The boy had no identifying features, nothing to tell who he was. Most likely, he was just another faceless guard.

The older man nodded and looked the prisoner in the eyes apologetically.

"Techno?"

"P-Phil."

Techno's vocal cords creaked from the sudden movement. Tears welled up in the older man's eyes and he ran to the boy on the ground. 

"I'm-Techno I've been- I'm so sorry I haven't come earlier."

Arms wrapped around Techno's thin figure. 

Why was he here? Why did Dream allow visitors? Was he going to die?

"You're fine."

"God I- What have they been feeding you? Have they been feeding you at all?"

"Yes." 

He uttered responses that showed no care for the man he once called father. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this. 

No, he was fully aware. 

He knew what would happen if he reacted. 

Images of red and snow clouded his vision. 

He knew what inciting anything against Dream led to. 

He couldn't have Phil's blood on his hands. 

So he sat, still and unmoving. He only asked one thing that wasn’t a cookie-cutter response. 

“Why are you here?”   
Phil let go and averted his eyes. It was ironic to see him try to avoid the person who seemed to ruin everything he touched. 

“It’s… It’s just a special day. Dream had let me visit today. And I wanted to see you.”   
“Oh.”   
The faceless boy came back into the room to tell Phil that he needed to leave. Phil nodded sadly and mumbled goodbyes. 

His father walked out of the room, holding an emerald in his hand and wiping tears from his cheek. 

And for the first time, he felt the urge to cry as Phil left. 


	2. if only i could say sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first tubbo pov whoooo
> 
> tw for panic attack and general angst

Tubbo was where he always would be in early April. He would sit on the wooden bench, listening to a song as the sun rose. His feet would be wet from the morning dew and he would be wearing his old, blue military jacket that had small tears at the bottom from time and moths. He had stopped adding patches of fabric once he ran out of sentimental symbols to sew in. He had an old medallion from his departure from office, a recognition that he was the first president to leave without dying. Although, he wouldn’t consider himself the same person to once stand at a podium with shaking breath. No, that boy had died the second the words “exile” fell off his lips. It didn’t matter if he didn’t want to do it, he still went through with the action.  
The soft chords of Mellohi floated through the air, he never understood the song's appeal until he was forced to hold on to it as a life line. A bittersweet taste was in the back of his throat.  
It had taken a while to accept, to move on. Death was funny like that. Accepting it had been harder than when Wilbur died, not because Tubbo didn’t care about Wilbur or that he only remembered the negative aspects of the man, but because some part of him still felt responsible. Some days, he would wake up and feel as if nothing had changed since he got the news. He would wake up feeling like he was about to put on a pair of leather boots and a coat before visiting a friend. Then he would remember. Those days were always the hardest. They were draining. But then the next day everything would be back to normal. Or as normal this could get.  
Wilbur's ghost didn't talk to Tubbo much anymore. Tubbo had resentment towards him, upset that he got to come back and not a person who had been a bright light from day one, a person who didn’t commit the sins the other boy had done. It was an added pain when the forgetful spirit would ask where a brother was, only to get an answer of pitied expressions and bitten tongues.  
It was lonely, but it was better than nothing.  
"Hello Tubbo."  
The former president turned at the sound of his name, jumping at the interruption to his silent mourning.  
"Hi Phil,"  
Tubbo took out his record and slid over to make room for the older man.  
"Would you like to sit?"  
Phil nodded, sitting down and facing the sunset.  
Phil and Tubbo had bonded over the loss of a loved one. Phil had lost both his remaining sons. He was probably the only one who could even think to understand what Tubbo felt, losing the two people who completed you. 

"How are you doing? How's your retirement?"  
Tubbo laughed softly at the idea that he was in 'retirement.'  
"It's been peaceful. It's so much nicer to not have to worry about wars. And I'm... I'm managing, I guess."  
"I would assume no longer being president would have less stress,"  
The two laughed at what seemed to be an attempt to lighten the somber mood.  
"And I'm proud of you, really. You've done things that I would never have expected you to do."  
"Thank you Phil. How have you been?"  
Phil sighed and looked into the distance. Tubbo noticed lines on the sides of his eyes and forehead.  
"I visited Techno today. Dream had told me that it was informal, but he would make an exception because of today."  
Tubbo nodded, glad that the man was able to see his son on a date that everyone knew all too well. Technoblade had been imprisoned once everyone began to realize that it didn’t matter who was called president, Dream was always the one behind the scenes, controlling the people. 

"That's good. How- How is he doing?"  
Phil shook his head and looked down to his hands in his lap. He shook. The man’s hands were calloused by age, grief, and struggle.  
"He was so thin, Tubbo. It was- It was like he wasn't even the same person,"  
Phil talked in a low voice, making sure any passerby couldn't eavesdrop. Tubbo had gotten used to the man grieving, but never once had he heard him break like this. He sounded afraid, he sounded like his world was shattering.  
"He barely spoke to me, everything he did say was simple responses like 'yes' or 'I'm okay.' God Tubbo, they broke my son."  
Phil controlled the way he reacted, but tears were still noticeable in the grey mist that formed his pupils.  
Tubbo contorted his face in confusion subtly. To any viewer, he would look as if he were just deep in thought.  
"I'm sorry Phil. If I could, I would get him out of there. He- He didn't deserve to be put in there, what he did was- it was excusable."  
Phil smiled softly.  
"Thank you Tubbo. You're a good kid."  
A soft drizzle started to fall from the clouds. The pair said their goodbyes, a handshake and a nod. Before stepping away, however, Phil hugged Tubbo.  
“I’m proud of you.”  
Tubbo blamed the light rain for the wet face he had by the time he opened his front door. 

Rain pelted on the windows. The wind was being blown at an angle that made a whistling noise when it hit the house. Niki would come over the next day to make sure the former president was okay and his secluded home was still standing. She would say that she also visited because he was her friend, but he knew that wasn't true. She just didn't want another friend to turn into someone else because of ignorance. She used to come over every night when he first had to deal with his emotions alone. She would sit with him as he cried and stay until he fell asleep. She would talk with him and make him feel like he wasn’t alone. Things change though.  
Tubbo sat at his desk, quill in hand. He had been writing since he retired. He would write stories and poems and past experiences. He would make entries of the fight for independence he had undergone. And then he would change the past when he hit a certain point. Of course, nothing he wrote after the first war with Dream actually happened. Tommy never let the discs go, Wilbur never retired out of his own choice, Fundy never made amends with his father. Tubbo would marvel with ideas of flashing colors being from celebration and not explosion, everything being something that was meant to be.  
It made him regret so many choices. Niki said it wasn’t healthy to obsess over the ‘What ifs?’  
But it was nice to consider the thought that it could’ve happened.  
And it made him feel like he didn’t have blood-soaked hands.  
As droplets of water hit against the window, he wrote another letter to Tommy. It wasn’t like he would ever read it, but Tubbo had boxes full of unread letters to the boy. It was as close as possible to talking to his friend. 

_’Dear Tommy,  
Today is your birthday. Was, was your birthday. This was the second time I wasn’t able to celebrate with you. It was weird, it wasn’t like last year though. I didn’t feel… guilty I guess. I just felt a bit alone. Which I guess I am. Niki only ever visits when she knows I may need assistance or to make sure I’ve been eating and I’m not dead.  
I was thinking about you again today. You would be 18. I remember we had this whole plan for when we were adults, we made it on my 15th birthday. I don’t even remember what we talked about, I just remember being excited for the future and being happy. _

_Sometimes, I still feel like you’re here. I will even trick myself into thinking it was all a bad dream and I’ve just woken up to you doing some stupid shit and getting scolded by Wilbur, the alive one, and laughing at whatever antic you did that’s bound to get you banned from cooking forever. Sometimes I’ll think something and I swear, it’s like I can hear your response._

_I don’t get out much. I don’t completely isolate myself like I did 2 years ago, but I tend to avoid a lot of people. It hasn’t been the best thing for my friendships. I’ve been trying to fix my relationship with Ghostbur, I fucked up once and snapped at him. He forgets so much, and I was having a rough day. I apologized instantly, but I still felt so bad. I guess I’m just scared to not tell someone I am sorry.  
I’m sorry for not being there for you. Sorry for exiling you sorry for calling you selfish sorry for acting like you didnt matter sorry for never visiting sorry for everything im so so ’_

Thunder crashed and Tubbo jumped in his seat. Lightning flashed a few seconds after the noise. Shaking his head, he told himself it was just a passing storm, and closed his book.  
There were framed photos along the halls to his room. The house he built was small, a tiny kitchen, an open living room that he mainly used as a writing study, a bedroom, and a basement. He filled the hallways with framed pictures and papers. Swords he had used in the past were mounted throughout the home. He never used them anymore, he didn’t like what they reminded him of.  
The thunder crashed again and the floor shook slightly. The boy felt his breath quicken and he stopped to remind himself, it’s just a storm.  
He walked to his bedroom, shutting the blackout curtains he made for when the lightning got too bright. His room was lit by a singular lamp. The dark was comforting for the most part. He didn’t like lots of light.  
A photo in a small frame next to his bed caught his eye in the dim room. It was a photo of him, Fundy, Tommy, Wilbur,and Niki all in L’Manburg uniforms. He laughed sadly at the picture. Out of everyone in the photo, he was the only one remaining. Fundy and Niki had moved so far away that it took almost a day to see them, and Tubbo never did. He didn’t have the energy. They let him know he was always welcome to visit, that a little house for him was waiting.  
Wilbur and Tommy… They had-  
Thunder and lightning clouded his senses in the quick moment they arrived. Flashing light and color filled his vision. The air around him tightened, suffocating him. The thunder had passed but there were still booming bangs and lights around him. There was heat and smoke and tears and something else on his chest. He wasn’t in his home anymore, he was surrounded by ghosts and memories. It was blinding, he could smell gunpowder for just a second. He felt so dizzy.  
He braced his hands on his bed to catch himself from falling. Visions of yellow and pink blinded him, he heard faint apologies and screams. Hardwood oak caressed his shoulders as he hit the ground.  
*Need to protect myself..NOWILLGETHURT...itrustedhim..*  
There was the sound of glass shattering in the chorus of thunder and wailing  
He pressed the walls around him and his hands slipped through, reaching out at concrete but only stumbling blindly in the dark. His hands felt warm and wet after he reached to hit something, he couldn’t remember if it was to claw his way out of whatever invisible box he had been trapped in or hitting some attacker. Thunder continued to crash, and he put his hands over his ears to block it out. He ran down endless hallways to escape it, but still saw himself in the same place.  
“It’s not real! You’re dead!”  
He screamed out to nobody in particular. Was he dead? Was it Schlatt? Wilbur? The sides of his face where his hands had been felt odd and his throat was dry and strained.  
Eventually, he didn’t have the strength to run anymore. He could have sworn he was drowning, he felt like water was encased all over his body, all over his jacket and the burn scars. It didn’t scare him though. He didn’t fight it. Instead his knees folded under him and he collapsed onto solid ground in pure exhaustion.  
He sat on a stone pathway, rain washing away the nightmare he lived. His breathing calmed and he laid on the grass, sobbing into the dirt. For the few seconds he was awake, he could have sworn he saw the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for slow updates school exists mi amigos
> 
> ill try to have a better schedule bc im really excited fo this shizzile


End file.
